A claustrophobic showcase for fine acting, Lafosse’s crumbling relationship drama spends several months in a plush family home furnished with bitterness: the father, Cedric (Kahn), is no longer wanted, and the mother, Marie (Bejo), is attempting to kick him out – but not trying hard enough. In part, she’s affected by their two children, but deep down, he suspects, there’s still something in the relationship.

Well, if not love, there’s at least issues of money buried in their bond. Though Marie paid for the flat, Cedric – an unemployed architect – insists he deserves half of the flat’s value, having injected something money can’t buy: love. It’s a funny and sad moment in a drama that gets a bit too melodramatic. For everyone involved, it’s a survival story.

Mendonça Filho’s follow-up to Neighbouring Sounds (which I wasn’t the biggest fan of) is a more focused effort, settling down for 142 minutes with Clara (Braga), a 65-year-old music critic whose life is clearly more varied and worthy than that of a film hack.

Aquarius is the name of a seaside building in which Clara owns a flat, and it’s also on the shopping list of a property company that’s already purchased the plot’s surrounding homes. Shunning a generous cheque, Clara refuses to cave in, given her attachment to the place, and a few excursions into her past reveal the geographical memories worth fighting for. Her living room, adorned with LPs, echoes with more than familiar pop songs. Not that she’s an old woman yelling at an iCloud; she’s just as comfortable downloading music on her laptop, as long as it’s in her chosen home.

Braga, an undisputed star, brings colour and vibrancy to Clara. Seriously, it’s a super performance. A widow and cancer survivor, Clara is prepared to stand up to the corporate bullies (and to a lesser extent, her concerned relatives who wish she’d surrender), and the viewer, in turn, is cheering her on. (At the screening, someone started clapping during a fiery argument.) It’s a slow-burn “us vs them” tale with an itchy, nail-biting climax.

Throughout the patient narrative, we gain a rich insight into Clara’s daily routines and relationships, as well as the daily class/race prejudices of the area. There’s no denying it’s a fully fleshed-out character with ace music choices. The bonus takeaway message of Aquarius: don’t mess with arts journalists.

He was a road law enforcer who’s never touched a woman’s hand. She was an Instagram star whose face never appears in her videos. What’s possibly Saudi Arabia’s first ever rom-com has charm, wit and a fascinating relationship obstacle – public meet-cutes are forbidden.

Between Toni Erdmann and Don’t Think Twice, 2016 is proving to be an excellent year for improv comedy in cinema. Mike Birbiglia, the stand-up also responsible for writing/directing/starring in Sleepwalk With Me, steps back slightly with a supporting role in his delightful and poignant examination of professional jealousy.

The Commune is an improv troupe consisting of Jack (Key), Samantha (Jacobs), Miles (Birbigilia), Linsday (Sagher), Allison (Miccuci) and Bill (Gethard). They all care about each other, particularly Jack and Samantha who happen to date, and regularly perform in what appears to be a UCB-type theatre (but seriously, what do I know?) for small, loyal crowds. It’s like hanging out with your best friends at the bar each week – except the pre-drinks routine is creating sketches from audience suggestions. If you’re a comedy geek or still have a heart in this pointless universe, it’s a real treat.

To be honest, with everything going OK for the characters, I could happily watch the daily routines of these artists who require part-time jobs to make ends meet. Birbiglia’s script is, despite what you’d expect from the subject matter, tightly written and clearly the product of several drafts. (He workshopped it with people like Nicole Holofcener and Greta Gerwig doing test-reads.) But as the laughs are thrown around, something’s bubbling underneath – the fear one of them will “make it” without the others.

Amazingly, no one’s made this film yet. Yes, despite the constant influx of semi-autobiographical Sundance/Netflix comedies about how lonely it is in showbiz, Birbiglia’s ensemble feature taps into the competitive fervour that affects everyone, whether or not they’re performers. Jack gets a gig on Weekend Live, following an outrageous improv night (he brings out an Obama impression out of nowhere), and it upsets the group dynamics. Considering how often SNL anecdotes are brought up on podcasts, it’s baffling how only Birbiglia turns a real-life conflict into onscreen drama – and to make it accessible for non-performers.

On a visual level, Birbiglia has a few neat flourishes – which, if we’re honest, is more than anyone expects from a comic-turned-filmmaker – and shoots the improv sequences (they’re actually pretty funny) in long shots, moving across the stage. There’s actual thought placed into the small filmmaking details, but more importantly, a lifetime of showbiz-related pain in the character moments. Bill, for instance, is a teacher who’s seen students leapfrog him to success. Bill and Allison work on a writing package without, to his disappointment, Miles’ involvement. And then there’s Lindsay who, unlike the others, is wealthy and effectively has a risk-free hobby.

Go see it now. Except, in the UK, it’s not out now. It may not be life-changing for everyone, but to that, I say, “Yes, and…?”

A simple tale, told in pastel animation, Ethel & Ernest is an adaptation of Briggs’ graphic novel about his unremarkable parents. In fact, the action – from WWII to the rise of long 70s haircuts – all happens around the humble couple. The accumulation of short snippets is more entertaining and emotionally resonant than it sounds, while the terrific voice cast is a Timothy Spall short from a Mike Leigh movie.

As with all boxing films, it’s best when it’s not about boxing. And Kuosmanen’s bittersweet biopic of Olli Maki really does treat the sport as something that gets in the way of life. If I were being reductive, I’d say it’s as if Aki Kaurismäki made a boxing film. But he made Rocky VI, and Olli Maki’s tone, while dry in humour, is less absurd than, say, Calamari Union. Ironically, it lacks the extra punch to make it more than a diverting story.

When an early car journey softly transformed into a wave of water, I was instantly won over by Quillévéré’s meditation on life, death and hospitals. Though it sounds like Holby City with subtitles, there’s a glorious poetry in the literal transplant of a heart to another body.

Hermia & Helena – 5/10

A fairly uninspiring riff on Shakespeare, Piñero’s sprawling comedy feels mostly like filler set across time periods and locations. Camila (Muñoz) is working on an adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but for what purpose exactly? It’s unclear, aside from an excuse to plaster play extracts across the screen. Despite the loose energy, any interest in the knotty relationships eventually fizzles out.

The Last Laugh – 7/10

When is a joke too soon? And when is a documentary about humour too late? With Pearlstein’s engaging exploration of comic controversy, the much-discussed topic is worth revisiting because of its insightful contributors, choice clips and focus on the biggest taboo of them all: the Holocaust.

On the topic of what’s off limits, Mel Brooks notes he couldn’t have made a movie about the Inquisition in 1492 (“then I’d have been in trouble”), but of course he made The Producers and mocked Nazis in the process. The Holocaust itself, he argues, is the one thing he can’t joke about.

The selection of clips is fascinating, especially with the occasional reactions of Renee Firestone, a 91-year-old Auschwitz survivor, who watches a few stand-up routines on YouTube. However, the doc’s highlight is the pained analysis, as if opinions are unravelled in real time. For instance, a Joan Rivers gag is debated. “The last time a German looked that hot,” she quipped, “was when they were pushing Jews into the oven.” It’s tasteless, sure, but even Mel Brooks, who disapproves of the gag, concedes the rhythm, delivery and punchline are excellent.

So what crosses the line? It’s hard to say, but worth discussing anyway.

Weed has been paired with comedy since the silent era when the Lumière brothers filmed a joint heading towards the screen and subsequently terrified uptight audiences. Not so much with films about grief. In Polonsky’s directorial debut, a father tokes up on his dead son’s medical marijuana during Shiva, a period extending a lengthy period of suffering for two periods. Their 25-year-old child, we learn, was in a hospice, likely dying of cancer, and the week-long process of mourning only extends the pain by adding chores.

The tone is generally light, often to a fault, with many of the digressions missing the mark in terms of humour. Nevertheless, there are repressed emotions bubbling at the fore, and these pockets of drama hint at a filmmaker with greater things to come – especially a sneak peek at another funeral that offers a second devastating perspective.

Sightseers, which Alice Lowe co-wrote and starred in, was whittled down from 120 hours of footage to the 90 minutes that reached cinemas. That luxury wasn’t available for Lowe’s directorial debut, Prevenge, another sickly funny comedy about murder and the benefits of leaving the house more often. Shot in (if I remember correctly) nine days, it stars Lowe, eight months’ pregnant at the time, and this “now or never” deadline bleeds into the tense atmosphere – on a meta level, you can’t stop admiring the film exists, and within the performances there’s a palpable discomfort about the filming conditions.

Still, Prevenge is more than a gimmick movie. It’s a surprisingly gory satire on how pregnant women are condescended to with banal conversation, among other things, and Lowe clearly has fun sticking the knife in.

Rara – 6/10

A bittersweet coming-of-ager with some excellent child performances, Martín’s first feature details a particularly painful divorce: two daughters move in with their mother and her new girlfriend, unaware of the prejudice that might sway future court decisions. Despite too much meandering, it’s undeniably moving and takes an intriguing tact of sticking with the naïve children’s POV.

Making an odd LFF double bill with Elle, Defurne’s Souvenir is otherwise known as Isabelle Huppert’s Eurovision Song Contest romcom. And it’s a dumb, flimsy flight of fancy. Huppert, in a more overtly comic role than usual, sings her own stunts, but her icy persona still does wonders – why exactly is her character, Liliane, working in a pate manufacturing unit?

That question lingers in the mind of Jean, a much younger boxer and co-worker played by Azaïs. “You need love like a plant needs water,” he tells Liliane. The unlikely romance blossoms, as does a musical comeback. “From stage to factory…” goes one news report. Well, now we know what happens to the runner-up.

Women Who Kill – 7/10

Despite the body toll, Jungermann’s twisted comedy is a laidback affair, finding humour in the death of relationships and the occasional living person. It’s a slyly funny dip into Brooklyn’s dating scene, frequently subverting cinema and societal stereotypes, while confirming the stereotype that every American performer has a podcast.

Committing to a podcast, it seems, is easier than maintaining a long-term relationship. At least, that’s true for Morgan (Jungermann) and Jean (Carr), two ex-lovers who still record and upload audio of murder-related discussions. For instance, who was the hottest female serial killer? It’s not exactly Serial, but no one listened to that after season one, anyway.

The film’s central hook and hook-up is when Morgan starts dating Simone (Vand), a secretive co-worker who’s possibly a sadistic killer with a habit of keeping her victims’ toenails (that detail is sicker than the killing, tbh). Anyone who’s seen A Girl Who Walks Alone at Night will already be seduced by Vand’s elusive mannerisms, and her performance here is to make a stranger seem even stranger. It’s a comic persona fits that meshes well with the film’s surreal tone. The plot’s not to be taken too seriously.

Ultimately, it’s Jungermann’s film. Full of wit and droll one-liners, it’s an endearing watch, aided with a fine supporting cast – including Shannon O’Neill, who injects a boisterous energy into proceedings. The awkward chemistry between Jungermann and Carr is fittingly believable and painful. While the lack of commitment to the actual mystery hampers the dramatic impact somewhat, the sharp finale certainly leaves a mark.